


Buffalo Dollar

by Tyranno



Series: but I wore his jacket for the longest time. [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish is Bad at Feelings, Book 2: The Dream Thieves, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Joseph Kavinsky-centric, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Underage Drinking, past roninsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: “Look, baby,” Kavinsky stretched out his long legs, “Just ’cause I’m fucking your daughter doesn’t mean I want the in-laws’ life advice. I didn’t know I’d inherit all that shit.”“That’s not what this is,” Ronan said, darkly, “It’s not about Adam.”“Oh, it’s not,” Kavinsky rolled his neck and it clicked, audibly, “Your change from whipping my ass into the hospital to caring about my wellbeing is—what? Divine intervention?”
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky & Blue Sargent, Joseph Kavinsky & Richard Gansey III, Joseph Kavinsky/Adam Parrish, Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch, past - Relationship
Series: but I wore his jacket for the longest time. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646647
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95





	Buffalo Dollar

**Author's Note:**

> I have honestly no idea if this will make sense if you haven't read Mercury Dime since this mostly just pay-off for stuff I set up in the last one. If you're adaptive enough, I suppose you could make it work. 
> 
> The gist of MD is that Adam accidentally killed his father during a fight and Kavinsky helped him cover it up. And now they're in love :,)
> 
> I interpret Kav as at least passive suicidal for most of TDT. I don't think there are any particular triggers beyond that, past what you would expect from the books, the rating of this fic or what I've already tagged. If MD was fine for you, this fic should be too.  
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> (・㉨・)

> “I told her once I wasn’t good at anything. She told me survival is a talent.”

— Susanna Kaysen, _Girl, Interrupted_

* * *

Adam set down the last box into his new room.

Part of him really liked moving. He’d never done it before, and he enjoyed just how empty and clean the flat had been before he’d started moving in boxes. He almost wished he didn’t own anything, and the flat could be as empty and pristine as when he had first looked around it. As it was, Adam could hang all of his clothes in the dresser and tuck away his single set of kitchenware into the kitchen cupboard and it was almost as empty, almost as barren.

Adam tucked his box of books at the foot of the bed.

His bed was only an old mattress he’d bought from Craigslist set directly onto the floor. He hadn’t even put sheets on it yet.

He would have to use his box of books as a desk and a table until he could afford one to put into the kitchen. At some point he would like to buy a dishwasher, a microwave, and a vacuum cleaner, and maybe a couple of lamps. But for now there was only him, and he didn’t think he’d generate much mess.

Sunlight painted across the white drywall over the head of his bed. Adam watched it glow against the dust motes floating around the air. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

*

Kavinsky’s face collided with the kitchen cabinet. The smell of gasoline and blood filled his mouth and nose and he got his feet under himself quickly, jumping up with his fists raised.

Only to find there wasn’t anyone to fight.

Skov had been wrestled to the ground and Kavinsky looked down on his struggling body. A familiar, broad back pinned him to the kitchen floor, the same broad back Kavinsky had run his hands along only months ago now. He admired it for a moment.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand, “You could probably let him go about now.”

Ronan gave Skov one last smack against the granite tiles before finally releasing him. Skov scrambled to his feet, arms bunched at the elbow like he was about to throw another punch. His face was cut up worse than Kavinsky’s, the right eye bleeding steadily. He glanced between the two of them.

“You’re both a bunch of fucking queers anyway,” Skov snapped, backing away.

“Bye, Skov,” Kavinsky purred back, “Make sure to collect your balls at the door.” Skov flipped him off and ducked out of the room when Ronan gave him another dark look.

Kavinsky spat a wad of blood into the sink and pulled a half empty pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. The healed, broken and then healed again scabs on his knuckles gave his hands an asymmetrical, warped look to them. He pulled out a cigarette between finger and thumb, his bloody fingers wetting the paper.

“What brings you to one of my shindigs, Lynch?” Kavinsky asked, balancing the cigarette between his lips.

“What the hell are you doing, letting him whip you like that?” Ronan said, leaning back against the kitchen table, “You’re a better boxer than that. You’re fought me—”

“Christ alive,” Kavinsky tutted, lighting his cigarette. He pulled it in, the end brightening to scarlet, before he released a cloud of smoke.

Ronan waved the smoke away from his face, scowling.

“Look, baby,” Kavinsky stretched out his long legs, “Just ’cause I’m fucking your daughter doesn’t mean I want the in-laws’ life advice. I didn’t know I’d inherit all that shit.”

“That’s not what this is,” Ronan said, darkly, “It’s not about Adam.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Kavinsky rolled his neck and it clicked, audibly, “Your change from whipping my ass into the hospital to caring about my wellbeing is—what? Divine intervention?”

Ronan followed him as he padded towards the freezer, “I thought that was different. You said you were killing him. That was what you fucking said to me.”

“I was trying to get your balls to descend,” Kavinsky opened the freezer and tossed out chicken strips and packets of ice cream, “Wanted to know whether your missus let you have them on the weekends or just on the national holidays.”

“I’m sorry about it,” Ronan said, stiffly.

Kavinsky peered up at him, black eyes swollen in the low light. He pulled out a packet of steak and slapped the freezer shut, “Don’t be, Lynch. That was how I wanted you to respond.”

“Why?” Ronan asked, “I mean, what the fuck do you have to gain from—” Ronan gestured at Kavinsky’s split knuckles and swollen eye, “—all this?”

Kavinsky tore into the steak packet with his teeth and spat out a wad of plastic, “You used to get it, Lynch. You tell me.”

Blood dripped on the floor as Kavinsky liberated the thick wad of meat from its packaging. He turned it over in his hands until both hands were scarlet, before he leaned his head back and laid it over the wounded eye. He watched Ronan with his open eye.

“It’s not sustainable,” Ronan said.

“That ain’t an answer,” Kavinsky said, “Give me an answer.”

Ronan clenched his teeth. His eyes were shadowed and angry.

“That’s what I thought,” Kavinsky said, and padded softly through the French glass windows out of the kitchen and onto the grass. A bonfire blazed and blazed on the orchard, the high flames licking the apple trees dangerously.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Ronan said. He was taller than Kavinsky, and broader, so cut through the party guests without even trying.

“Well, yeah,” Kavinsky made a beeline for the drinks table, meat still pressed over half of his face. Blood ran down his neck and slipped over his collarbone, “That’s the idea.”

“You’re hurting Adam,” Ronan said, with finality.

Kavinsky snagged an unopened tower of red solo cups and searched the table. Every available surface was covered with bottle, empty shot glasses or broken glass. With a look of resignation in his face, he spat out the cigarette onto the grass and put the bloody steak into his mouth to free both hands.

Ronan watched him unscrew the tequila bottle with the raw meat hanging out of his mouth. Bloody was sticky and patchy over the side of his face. No matter how much Kavinsky washed, he always seemed dirty, even fresh out of the shower. There was something about his skin tone, the yellowing of an addict, the uneven shadow of his stubble, which made him look unsavoury. That, or knowing Kavinsky gave his face that impression.

After pouring himself a generous cup of tequila, Kavinsky took the hunk of meat out of his mouth, “Everything hurts Adam. At night he worries himself to death wondering if the sun will rise again. All four of you are damn tense as a motherfucker.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Ronan protested.

“Tell me what you mean, Lynch,” Kavinsky said, tiredly, “I’m sick of talking in fucking circles with you. Don’t act like you fucking care whether I live or die, not now.”

Ronan scowled, “Of course I—”

Kavinsky turned on his heel and stalked away. He pushed past party guests and struck out onto the gravel path towards the second, emptier orchard.

“Kavinsky!” Ronan called after him.

Kavinsky took a big swig of his tequila, swallowing the tight burn it came with. His expression didn’t change.

Ronan snatched his elbow, wrenching it towards. Kavinsky held the meat in his fist, blood dribbled onto Ronan’s fingers.

“I am sorry,” Ronan gritted out, “For how I used to treat you. There was a time when—when I used to take all my aggression out on you. You gave me an outlet for it; it was unhealthy, and I should have realised that.”

“Christ,” Kavinsky looked at him darkly, “You’re fucking gay and that’s coming from me.”

“I just wanted you to hear it from me,” Ronan said.

“Are we done with this little heart to heart?” Kavinsky asked, “’Cause I’d like you to take your fucking hands off me.”

Ronan released him immediately. He saw the red marks his fingers had left on Kavinsky’s elbow. Kavinsky didn’t even look at them, instead he took a long drink from his red solo cup.

Gansey wouldn’t have understood—but there was a time in Ronan’s life when the anger was so bad it itched his skin like poison ivy and it dragged him out, into the Henrietta streets. He was always spoiling for a fight, desperate for some kind of outlet for the pain that thrummed in his veins, something to make him batter and bleed. And Kavinsky was always there, every night, picking on his wounds and dragging his claws down his back, perfectly hurtable. How long had Kavinsky felt like that, too? The guy didn’t even show pain, every hit ricocheted against a wolfish grin and a silent prayer for more.

Kavinsky finished his tequila and crumbled up the cup and tossed it into the bushes. He fished another cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it with one hand. The meat hung forgotten in his bloody fist.

“Do you ever think—it would have worked out, between you and me?” Ronan asked, quietly, “If things had been different.”

Kavinsky breathed out a deep cloud of smoke. He growled lowly. Blood had dried in his hairline, making it stick out in odd clumps.

“I don’t know, Lynch: An enabler and an enabler in a relationship together?” Kavinsky fixed him with a look, “What do you think?”

*

When the doorbell rang, Adam peeled himself off the corner of the bed he’d been sitting on, stretching his legs in the hallway as he approached the front door. It was dark. The bare-bulb lighting gave the place a cave-like look.

He unlatched the door and opened it.

“Did you really have to live in the attic, Rapunzel?” Kavinsky leaned against the door frame, “That was a lot of fucking stairs.”

“Your dinner’s cold,” Adam stepped aside to let him come in.

Kavinsky passed him much closer than he needed too, and Adam got the strange vision of being brushed against by a friendly tom cat. He closed the door.

“I don’t have a microwave,” Adam said, “So I’ll put it into the oven for a little bit, but it will take some time to warm up.” Kavinsky stretched out on Adam’s bed. The plate of eggs was balanced on top of the cardboard box at the foot of his bed and Adam picked it up carefully.

“I got time,” Kavinsky said.

“If you put your feet on my bed, Kavinsky,” Adam said, “You’ll _get_ time.”

Kavinsky cracked an eye open to look at him, “Your jokes are so Disney channel.”

Adam’s mouth formed a thin line, “You’re one to talk. How many dick jokes are you going to make before you realise it’s getting a little old?”

“Dick jokes are timeless,” Kavinsky said, “They were making dick jokes at the globe theatre, babe.”

“Uh-huh,” Adam turned and left the room.

“Can I get some coffee?” Kavinsky called after him.

“If you come make it yourself,” Adam said.

Kavinsky grumbled something and rolled off the bed. He padded into the kitchen after him. The kitchen was small and somehow, throughout the entire routine of making coffee, Adam felt Kavinsky bumping into him, putting his hands around his hips, always touching.

*

The thunderous knocking reverberated through Monmouth Manufacturing.

Gansey ignored it for a full three minutes. Adam had a key. Ronan was asleep in the other room, somehow sleeping through all the banging. And somehow, Gansey knew it wasn’t Blue, either. He stared daggers at the ceiling. Finally, he peeled himself out of the warm bed and padded across the empty floor to the front door. The factory floor was unforgivingly cool, as if it were punishing him for going against his instincts. He opened the door.

Kavinsky took a shaking step back, hand curling around the railing as if the presence of Gansey knocked him back.

“Adam isn’t here,” Gansey said, sharply.

Kavinsky tried to say something but his jaw froze shut. He breathed unsteadily.

Gansey moved to close the door.

“Wait!” Kavinsky yelped, slapping a hand on the peeling paint, “Wait, you insufferable prick, God damn!”

Gansey took a step back, eyebrows furrowing, “Are you trying to ask me something?”

“Let me in,” Kavinsky gasped.

“No,” Gansey said.

Kavinsky placed a hand in the centre of Gansey’s chest and shoved him back, hard. Gansey nearly fell over, and by the time he regained his balance, Kavinsky was stalking through Monmouth Manufacturing.

It took a moment for Gansey to work out where Kavinsky had gone, and then he heard retching from the toilet. Reluctantly, he closed the door, if only to stop the cold from getting in. It irked him that Kavinsky, who was barely taller than him and built like a scarecrow, was still often stronger and quicker than he was. It seemed unfair, somehow. The toilet flushed and the water ran, before Kavinsky stalked back out of the kitchen, his gait shaking and uneven.

Cupboards opened and shut loudly as Kavinsky pawed through the kitchen, pulling out mugs and glasses and packs of instant noodles. He looked through the bottom cupboards and rattled the cutlery around.

“You only have instant shit?” Kavinsky gestured to the instant coffee on the counter.

“You should have called ahead,” Gansey said, leaning on the counter opposite him, “I didn’t think you’d be dropping by at—” He glanced at the digital clock above the extractor fan “—one-thirty in the morning.”

“Yeah well,” Kavinsky broke the seal of the coffee box, “Neither did I. You don’t have an electric kettle, do you?”

“No,” Gansey pulled out a pan and filled with water. He set it on the stoke and lit the gas ring. He yawned.

Kavinsky didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He twitched constantly, tensing and relaxing his muscles. His leg bounced as he waited for the water the boil. He began to hum but stopped almost immediately, swallowing air.

“Are you sure you need coffee?” Gansey asked, “You seem pretty hyped up already.”

“Fuck off,” Kavinsky said.

“Well, alright,” Gansey said, leaning back against the cabinets. The sky was so dark outside that the windows looked like huge plates of black stone. Windows gleamed like black scales from the light of the kitchen.

Kavinsky was wearing a huge white silk shirt which was tied at his wrists. When he scratched his wrist, the shirt shifted and Gansey could see his forearm streaked in pink welts speckled with blood where Kavinsky had almost clawed himself raw.

The water began to boil, and Kavinsky tore the lid from the instant coffee box and dumped half of it into the bubbles. The water blackened and turned the colour and consistency of swamp water. Kavinsky breathed in the sharp smell of coffee and didn’t quite grin.

That was another thing. He hadn’t ever seen Kavinsky so stone-faced. Gansey watched the light reflect off Kavinsky’s sweaty forehead.

“You’re in withdrawal,” Gansey said.

“No shit,” Kavinsky stirred the molten coffee and turned the shove off. He collected the mugs and dipped each one into the pan, filling them one by one. He blew on one of them frantically before running a little cold water into them.

“Is that… safe?” Gansey asked, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Kavinsky sipped the hot coffee, “Why don’t you have a damn coffee machine? This is shit.”

“They’re bad for the environment,” Gansey said.

“Not all of them,” Kavinsky swallowed a gulp of the hot coffee and grimace, clutching his stomach.

“Kavinsky,” Gansey said, insistently, “I need to know I’m not gonna walk in on your dead body in the morning. Are you safe?”

“Yeah, sure,” Kavinsky said, finishing one cup and moving on to the next one, “I’m peaches.”

Gansey looked at him suspiciously, “Are you really sure?”

“Sweetheart,” Kavinsky around his coffee cup, “What answer are you looking for? Just let me know, and I’ll say it.”

“Fine,” Gansey said.

Just then, Kavinsky slammed down the half-empty mug and clutched his stomach. His fingers knotted into the silk over his stomach and he gagged on air, eyes screwed shut. He hung like that, as if he was being tasered, for a full minutes before he relaxed, exhausted.

“How long is that going to last?” Gansey asked, softly.

“Well it’s coke, so,” Kavinsky thought hard, “I dunno, two, two and a half months? It’d be fine so long as I don’t fall sleep.”

“Your plan is not to sleep—for two and a half months?”

“I can sleep,” Kavinsky corrected him, “As long as it’s through passing out, that way I won’t Dream.”

Gansey took a step back, running a hand through his hair. He sighed, “Wow, Kavinsky.”

Kavinsky finished that cup of coffee and moved on to the next one, “I hope you have a lot of toilet paper, ’cause this is gonna make me piss like a racehorse.”

Gansey picked up one of the untouched mugs and began to drink. Kavinsky had been right—the taste was foul and gritty. When Kavinsky was finished with his litre of coffee, Gansey invited him up to the raised platform.

“What’s this?” Kavinsky squatted by the side of the great lake, “A Henrietta for ants?”

“Sure,” Gansey said, “Sit down.”

Kavinsky sat down. The tremor still ran through him and his fingers shook even as they rested in his lap. It was as if he had his own, private earthquake. He couldn’t even keep his eyes still, darting around the toy houses like he was desperately searching for something. He rocked forward and backwards.

“Here,” Gansey passed him a rolled-up bundle of fake plastic grass.

Kavinsky accepted it and turned it over, rubbing his fingers into the short green strands, “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Cut it into these shapes,” Gansey passed him a sheet of thick inked paper, which showed seemingly random shapes which would fit neatly around the buildings and streets.

Kavinsky looked at them for a long time, and Gansey thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He only put the long sewing scissors around the corner of the plastic and began to chop haphazardly.

“Hold on,” Gansey put his hands over Kavinsky’s, “You need to go for long, consistent cuts. They’re easier to control.”

Kavinsky allowed his hands to be moved around to make a long, concise cut. Gansey released him, “See?”

Black eyes followed the long scissor cuts. Kavinsky looked more dead than alive, his face blank and still. Then, like ice thawing, he moved, cutting very slowly and carefully. Occasionally his shakes became so bad that the sheet of fake grass made a low warbling noise as it shook.

Gansey busied himself correcting the brickwork technique on the side of the abandoned windmill on the edge of town. Driving past it the other day he had noticed that the mortar wasn’t the pristine white like he remembered but instead had become a deep grey black, and the bricks themselves were more of a rusty brown than the deep red he’d originally chosen. It meant that he needed to dissolve the glue around the edges of the brick facing so he could ease it off without compromising the integrity of the building.

“M’gonna go piss,” Kavinsky said, setting down the half-cut section of grass. He stood up.

“Take your shoes off,” Gansey said, “You’re shaking the floor too much. This is tricky work.”

Kavinsky took his shoes off and balled his socks into them before throwing them across the room. They collided with the door in a ringing thump like someone had struck a gong. It made Gansey wince. He was glad Ronan was such a heavy sleeper.

Dabbing adhesive remover onto the side of the miniature windmill, Gansey tried to keep his hand steady, changing his grip on the tweezers. The trick to these kinds of jobs was to start at the bottom, so that when the top was loosened it could be safely eased off without damaging anything it was attached to or around it. He didn’t like adhesive remover, it made his skin itch and often weakened the whole structure, but he didn’t want to build an entire new windmill just to darken it a few shades.

Kavinsky returned, his bare feet soundless on the wood floor.

Gansey glanced up at him and froze. There, on Kavinsky’s ankle, sharp black against his pale skin was an **_A_**. It was wobbly and uneven, thicker in some places than others.

“What is it?” Kavinsky asked, sitting down. His head hung tiredly.

“Nothing,” Gansey returned to his brickwork, “Nothing at all.”

*

This continued for some time.

Kavinsky at night was uncharacteristically quiet and obedient. It was clear the trauma of withdrawal was taking the lion’s share of him. He shuttled around Monmouth Manufacturing like a stray cat, drinking half a box of instant coffee at night. Gansey eventually filled the cupboards with energy drinks and caffeine pills which made Ronan frown. There was evidence of Kavinsky everywhere—the stale cigarette butts that littered every saucer Gansey put out for him, Kavinsky’s jackets around the backs of chairs, Kavinsky’s favourite mugs dry and ready for him in the sink.

They built more of Henrietta. Kavinsky had spent much more time driving around Henrietta than he had and apparently had excellent visual memory. He knew the exact shade of the gates which bordered the sheep farm just out of town, the cement work on the old cattle market, and the church signs—almost down to the hex codes. He worked very slowly and always had an irritated look on his face. It was unclear whether it was the work that gave him that look, or the raging discomfort in his body.

Gansey didn’t realise how much he was used to Kavinsky coming around until one night, a month into the withdrawal, he found himself disconcerted as the night ticked on without Kavinsky turning up.

When the clocked clicked to 5 AM, the handle turned and Kavinsky padded in, kicking his shoes off. He noticed Gansey and raised his head, “Yo.”

Gansey frowned at him.

Kavinsky walked towards him, his gait even and steady. He looked awake, for the first time in a long time, and his pale arms were free of scratches.

“You…” Gansey frowned, “Are you alright?”

“I relapsed,” Kavinsky said. His manner was wary but conversational, and he made a beeline for the cabinet where the energy drinks were kept.

“What do you mean?” Gansey turned to keep his eyes on Kavinsky, “What happened?”

“Just told you, sweetheart,” Kavinsky said, cracking open the seal on the silver RedBull, “I was home all day. My parents were there, so I relapsed. I got fucked up. I didn’t have a choice.”

“But you did have a choice, Kavinsky,” Gansey said, “You always have a choice.”

Kavinsky looked at him. It was an expression between bewilderment and contempt. Slowly, it hardened into the latter, until Kavinsky looked angry, vicious. It was an expression Gansey saw surprisingly rarely. It was a look like death.

“Do I, Gansey?” Kavinsky’s voice was sharp, “Do I really?”

“You have to want to quit, Kavinsky,” Gansey said.

Kavinsky’s eyes were black with anger. The drink crinkled in his hand. He cast a glance around the room and dug a dog-eared packet of Malboros from his jeans pockets.

“You should stop smoking in here,” Gansey snapped.

“You are really testing my good will, Richard,” Kavinsky said put a cigarette between his lips, “You are really fucking testing me.”

“I’m testing _you?”_ Gansey asked, incredulous.

“Listen, do you want to be my friend or my fucking minder?” Kavinsky lit his cigarette, “You can’t be both.”

Gansey snapped, “What’s wrong with you, Kavinsky? You just threw away over a month of work—over what? Peer pressure?”

 _“PEER—?!”_ Kavinsky roared before he snapped his mouth shut tightly. He closed his eyes very tightly and Gansey could see him counting down from ten. For some reason that just made Gansey angrier, like he was being unreasonable. Gansey gritted his teeth tightly.

“You guys really don’t see me as a real person, do you?” Kavinsky asked.

His voice came out so softly and sadly, Gansey stopped in his tracks.

“I mean, you really don’t think I can suffer,” Kavinsky said, voice rough and quiet, “You don’t think I feel anything just ’cause I don’t scream and cry about it to you. Shit, I’m not as nice or quiet as Parrish, so I can’t be a victim.”

“That’s not—” Gansey started.

“It is, it is,” Kavinsky said, waving a hand, “You’ve seen my body, Gansey. It ain’t no fucking dog that bit me.”

Gansey swallowed thickly.

“I can tell you the details,” Kavinsky said, “But I can’t cry about it. I can’t. Whatever was soft and good in me is gone. You don’t know the life I’ve lived, Gansey. You don’t know me at all.”

Gansey felt strange. All of his anger suddenly had no place to go. He didn’t know what to say. His feelings twisted in his stomach, like a snake.

“I mean, you know what my fucking _mother_ says to me?” Kavinsky’s voice cracked, “This was years ago, now, but you know what she says to me—first time she came to America? I am eight, my father is drunk, he’s smashing things, he’s kicking the dogs around, you know what she says to me? Do you?”

“No,” Gansey said, quietly.

“She—she said,” Kavinsky’s voice sounded raw, “ _Go in there, Joey, and keep him quiet.”_

Gansey said nothing. It felt like all of the air had been taken out of the room. Kavinsky’s face was so raw and painful it was difficult to look at. Gansey’s chest hurt, deep and embedded. It was the same, twisting, sharp dread he felt whenever he turned up to class and caught sight of Adam’s new bruises. Or whenever he saw the claw marks on Ronan’s wrists, or the dent in Noah’s cheek grew uncomfortably pronounced. It was the pressed-deep discomfort of someone he cared about—and what a shitty time to realise he actually cared about Kavinsky—being hurt beyond his control.

Kavinsky finished his drink. He stubbed out his cigarette on the kitchen table and retrieved his shoes. He left and forgot to close the door behind him, filling the factory floor with the heavy sound of rain.

Gansey sat with his head in his hands.

*

Sun light poured through the high windows of Monmouth Manufacturing, and the air had that fresh, brand-new smell of grass after rain. Gansey lay curled up like a cat on the couch. As Ronan emerged into the main factory floor, he shivered.

“It’s cold,” Ronan said, and spotted the front door wide open, “Has this been open all night? No wonder.”

“Ronan,” Gansey croaked, “Good morning.”

Ronan shut the front door and drew the latch shut. When he looked at Gansey properly, he raised his eyebrows, “Are you alright, Gansey?”

Gansey picked himself up and sat upright. His hair was mussed and unbrushed, sticking up in spikes over one side where he had slept on it. His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying. His entire demeanour had that characteristic Kicked Puppy-Dog look that Gansey adopted from time to time when he realised something bad had happened and he’d engineered a way to make it his fault.

“What happened?” Ronan asked, sitting down on the chair opposite the couch.

“Kavinsky,” Gansey said, running a hand through his hair.

“Shit,” Ronan stretched out his legs, “I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”

“No,” Gansey said, “It was my fault. I said—some things to him. I was so harsh. I thought I was being nicer to him; I’m not. Why am I like this, Ronan? I was like this with Adam too. I can’t seem to say the right thing.”

“Look, Gans,” Ronan said, “Both Adam and Kavinsky have their positives, but let’s face it, they’re heavily traumatised teenagers. They aren’t going to make communication easy.”

“It was more than that,” Gansey said, “Kavinsky relapsed because of his parents, and I basically told him I thought he wasn’t trying and was making up excuses. I’ve always known his parents were bad, everyone knows that, but I… I guess it didn’t sink in.” Gansey massaged his temples, “I don’t know. I made him come out and tell me he’s being abused. It must have been humiliating for him.”

Ronan breathed softly and rubbed his knees. The factory really was cold, a fresh bright cold of a forest in winter.

“Gansey…” Ronan said, “I wasn’t there. But I know you didn’t do it deliberately. And Kavinsky… well, he if he doesn’t tell us he’s having issues, we can’t know about it, can we? It sucks, that stuff is very difficult to talk about, but it’s not like we get an information pack when he becomes friends with us. We can’t make provisions for the unknown.”

Gansey scrubbed his face unhappily. He looked utterly miserable, “I don’t know, Ronan.”

“Well,” Ronan stood and padded towards to the kitchen, “Kavinsky might have his faults, but he’s a very forgiving guy. I very much doubt he’s even taken it to heart.”

“I have no idea what he’s feeling,” Gansey said, sadly, “Not deep down.”

“I don’t really want to know, honestly,” Ronan said, “The deep, innermost feelings of Joseph Kavinsky. What a terrifying thought.”

Gansey stretched his legs out on the couch. His back ached with cold and his whole body felt old and weary. Chainsaw flapped down and landed on Gansey’s shin, bobbing her fine black tail. Her deep black sides glistened green and purple in the sunlight, like an oil slick.

“Do we have any instant coffee?” Ronan asked.

“No,” Gansey said, without opening his eyes, “We’re out.”

*

Adam was once again drawn out of his warm bed by knocking at the door. As he passed his clock, he realised it wasn’t actually the middle of night—even if eight-AM after a late-night shift felt that way—so he decided he wasn’t really allowed to be angry about it. Or as angry as he wanted to be.

He opened the door to Kavinsky.

“Good morning,” Adam said, rubbing his eyes.

Kavinsky kissed him, and Adam smiled into it. He had missed waking up next to him. As Kavinsky pushed past him, Adam noticed he was carrying a huge, thick duvet which dragged against the ground.

“What’s this?” Adam asked, “I didn’t want any gifts from anyone. I can do just fine with the stuff I have.”

“I’m going to be using it,” Kavinsky said, stiffly.

Adam stared at him. Kavinsky’s spine was ram-rod straight and he looked back at him, black eyes catlike and almost wary.

“Are you going to send me home, Parrish?” Kavinsky said, and usually it would sound like a taunt, the bouncing, drawling way he spoke. But this time, it didn’t.

Adam’s heart softened. He pulled up the trailing end of the duvet and tucked it inside the apartment so he could close the door, “Of course not. I never would.”

*

The house party was noticeable from down the street. Fireworks burst and burned in the early evening sky, orange, yellow, blue. As Gansey drew up to the front porch, he swallowed his nerves. It was only him in the Camaro, for the first time in a long time he drove alone. It was weird to be in the Camaro with the clunking, chugging engine and nobody but him.

He closed the Camaro door behind him and locked it. Gansey eyed two long-legged Aglionby students who were watching the Camaro like a wolf sizing up a deer. Finally, he peeled his eyes away—he would be in and out. He would have to be very unlucky for the Camaro to fall victim to something dreadful in the ten minutes he planned to be gone.

Gansey pushed through the throng of people which hung around the doorway to the house. He had a thermos flask clasped in one hand.

“Dick?” Someone said, grabbing his elbow.

Gansey saw a face—too close to identify—one black eye with short, dark lashes. He pushed away, nearly slipping on spilled drink, “Kav—”

It wasn’t Kavinsky. It was one of his friends, whose name escaped him. But with his dark eyes and thick, dark hair and the same laughing, slanting mouth, he looked like Kavinsky’s brother. Were they brothers? This young man smiled more genuinely, like he was very pleased to see him.

“Are you lost?” Kavinsky’s friend asked.

“I’m looking for Kavinsky,” Gansey said. Someone shoved past him so hard he almost dropped his thermos flask. Being in such a loud party, with so many people and so many things happening in his peripheral—it started to wear on him.

Kavinsky’s friend grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd.

“Proko!” A young woman snatched Kavinsky’s friend’s arm, “Come catch a high with me!”

“Not right now,” Proko didn’t let go of Gansey’s hand, “Later.”

“He’s on dog walking duty,” Skov appeared and cast a disparaging look over Gansey. The young woman laughed and let herself be pulled away by Skov.

Proko pulled Gansey deeper into the house and finally released his hand to climb the stairs. Proko had a bouncy, doglike energy, and reminded Gansey of a human Labrador. He had large ears and uneven shoulders, like he was halfway through a shrug.

“How do you know Kavinsky?” Gansey asked.

Prokopenko sucked in air through his teeth, “Not sure that’s a story you want to hear, Dick.”

“What does that mean?” Gansey asked.

“I mean it might keep you awake at night,” Prokopenko said.

“It can’t be that bad,” Gansey frowned.

Prokopenko laughed, “I like that you think that, Dick.”

Gansey scowled at him. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Prokopenko was making fun of him. On the higher floors, the party was much thinner, and the music was muffled. Downstairs, they were playing something electropop and base-heavy.

“Richard!” Kavinsky stumbled into the hallway. His gait was unsteady and his body was unusually relaxed, to the point where he was finding it difficult to walk.

“Kavinsky,” Gansey said, glancing over him.

“No worries, baby,” Kavinsky purred, “I’m only soused. Had nothing more than straight rum all night.”

“It’s a bad sign that that’s comforting,” Gansey said, dryly.

Kavinsky stumbled dangerously, but Prokopenko snatched him around the middle and righted him quickly. They were almost the exact same height and build. Gansey wanted to ask Kavinsky about him, but he didn’t want to be turned down again.

“What’s that?” Kavinsky jerked his chin towards the thermos flask in Gansey’s hand.

“It’s for you,” Gansey passed him the thermos flask.

Kavinsky straightened up and took the thermos flask. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed deeply, “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” Gansey said.

Kavinsky took a deep drink, “It’s good.”

Gansey smiled, “I installed a coffee machine at Monmouth. It’s ready for you, if you… you know, if you want to come back.”

Kavinsky looked at him, expression blank. His grin slipped a little, his big dark eyes bright with something Gansey couldn’t identify. Gansey couldn’t read him well at the best of times, but now he really had no idea what he was thinking. Kavinsky screwed the lid back onto the thermos flask.

“You don’t have to,” Gansey said, feeling a tremor of nervousness, “I mean…”

Kavinsky surged forward—and kissed him on both cheeks. He laughed and nearly pushed Gansey over before Prokopenko righted him again.

“Ah, Gansey,” Kavinsky laughed through a hiccup, “You’re like a little _kuchentse._ No wonder Lynch is halfway in love with you. _Mnogo si sladka.”_

“Don’t be mean,” Proko scolded.

“I’m not being mean,” Kavinsky insisted.

“Ah,” Gansey’s face was burning. He swallowed, “So… you’re coming back?”

“Every day, baby,” Kavinsky said, “Set your watch by it.”

Gansey touched his pink cheeks, “Right.”

*

As promised, Kavinsky became a regular night occupant of Monmouth Manufacturing.

Kavinsky let himself in and padded like a ghost around the factory, joined some nights by their actual resident ghost. Noah, of all of them (except maybe Adam) had latched onto him the quickest. They senses of humour aligned.

Most of the nights, Ronan was asleep, or out, or staying in his room. He liked to keep to himself at the best of the times, but the presence of Kavinsky brought out his introversion in full spectrum. And some nights, Gansey slept properly and walked out in the morning to find Kavinsky and Ronan watching some crappy drama.

But when Ronan was there, the four of them played games. Well, Ronan, Gansey and Noah would play video games because Kavinsky was far too disordered and uncoordinated to handle the controls. On the best night, they would bring out the papers and journals and discuss Glendower. Kavinsky gave an interesting perspective relating Glendower to Koschei the Deathless and the story of Glendower’s return to Koschei’s death being broken from behind the three dogs he left to guard them. That had opened up an entire new vein of research that Gansey spent a very happy three weeks plumbing to the very depths until he finally discarded it as interesting, but irrelevant.

One morning, Gansey emerged from his room to find Kavinsky sitting cross-legged at the Little Henrietta. Chainsaw sat in Kavinsky’s lap; her legs folded under her. She reminded Gansey sometimes of a little kitten, the way she would tuck everything under her and become a small, soft black ball.

“Kavinsky?” Gansey asked. Kavinsky didn’t stir. He was deep asleep, a little fake tree still held in his hands. Gansey smiled and let him be.

*

Adam heard the water shut off from where he was curled up in bed and moved over when he heard the familiar padding of Kavinsky’s feet on the false wood flooring.

Kavinsky came into the room.

He was naked to the waist and still slippery with water. Adam quickly looked away, but he could still hear him approach, still feel the weight of the bed dip as Kavinsky wriggled in with him, under the heavy duvet. Kavinsky smelled of apple shampoo and crawled towards him.

Kavinsky put a hand under Adam’s pyjama shirt, his fingers curled around his flank, “We should fuck.”

Adam glanced at him.

Here were why these situations were difficult for him: He wanted to fuck Kavinsky. He had thought about it a lot, usually when his mind wondered at work and especially now that he spent all night already draped around him. He thought about what it would be like to wrap his legs around such a wild thing, or to have him wishbone beneath him. Kavinsky wasn’t beautiful. But there was—had always been—this magnetic sense around him which drew Adam hopelessly. There was something in Kavinsky’s dark eyes, his sloping spine, the jaunt of his hips, that Adam wanted to surrender to.

Kavinsky took his silence as reason to move closer, to pull Adam’s hips towards him, “I want to suck your cock.”

“God,” Adam groaned, desire itching at him, “If this is some sort of weird cryptic consent bullshit I will literally die of blue balls.”

“I’m asking to suck your dick,” Kavinsky began to unbutton Adam’s shirt, “I don’t know how less cryptic I can be.”

Kavinsky’s hands were still damp and warm. He licked a long, hot stripe across Adam’s belly.

“Please,” Adam begged, “please.”

Kavinsky purred his assent and put his hands down Adam’s pants.

*

It took a long time for Adam to return to himself. Distantly, he felt Kavinsky continue to lap at him. Then, Kavinsky tucked Adam back into his pants and licked his lips, reaching into his own pants to furiously jerk himself the rest of the way. That image: of Kavinsky leaning over him and desperately finishing himself off—Adam knew he would be thinking about it often in certain choice moments.

“Oh, fuck,” Adam said, heady, “That was…”

It felt like his whole body was wrung out and spent. The aftershocks of Kavinsky rocked him gently. He felt a deep, satisfied tiredness, the kind he almost never felt. It felt obscenely luxurious, like he could just drop into the deepest, cosiest sleep in his life.

Kavinsky settled between his legs, his head on the crook of Adam’s arm. He looked up at Adam, his eyes dark. He smiled softly.

Adam wanted to tell him that he loved him. It was certain moments when Kavinsky did something—something sweet, or especially unexpected, or even just normal moments—and the urge to confess surged up in Adam like a hot tide. He felt like Kavinsky and him were tied together, somehow. They were spinning in the same axis. Adam wanted, desperately, for Kavinsky to know how much he cared and how much he felt like they were bound together, how much he was grateful to Kavinsky for.

But even Adam knew that dropping the L-bomb right after a blowjob was a terrible idea, so Adam settled for stroking Kavinsky’s hair. Kavinsky ran his knobbly fingers along the soft skin of Adam’s flank and relaxed with a gentle sigh.

“Still think it was a bad idea?” Kavinsky purred.

“Maybe,” Adam said, “Now whenever I’m bored at work I’m going to think about how much I’d rather you were there, sucking me off.”

Kavinsky chuckled and moved upwards, body sliding over Adam. He pressed his cheek against Adam’s chest, “I’m only a phone call away.”

*

The world was quiet and still.

Adam listened to Kavinsky’s quiet breathing, the crinkle of covers as he shifted slightly in sleep. It had never been this quiet in the trailer park. There had always been someone awake and making their presence known. Loud music. A dog barking, children wailing. Or even just the wind, rattling the thin windows in their frames.

Adam must have been awake at least an hour. It was a sleepy morning, his sleep had been slow and confusing, not quite nightmares but the sort of dream that left him unsettled. The parts of his body that weren’t close to Kavinsky were chilly and numb.

Gently, Adam lifted himself into sitting position. Kavinsky murmured. Cold spread through his feet as he lifted the covers from his legs and padded out of the bedroom.

The kitchen was even colder. Adam stooped the turn the radiator on. Before Kavinsky had moved in, he had rationed heat and electric miserly, but now that he only had to pay half of the rent, he could more than afford heating. The radiator rattled and coughed as the old pipes began to wake up.

Even with the lights on, the kitchen still felt grim and tired, the harsh lighting turning the white surfaces and cabinets bleached yellow. Adam set a pan on the stove. The ignition spat before finally lighting.

“Morn’,” Kavinsky yawned and closed the kitchen door behind him. There was only one chair in the kitchen, and he flopped down onto it, rubbing his thighs.

“Sorry,” Adam said, “Did I wake you?”

Kavinsky made a non-committal groan. His eyes were still shut, and Adam wondered if he might fall asleep again in the kitchen chair. He had before. Adam wished he had that talent; Kavinsky could sleep anywhere, in any position, no matter how uncomfortable it looked. Even if he didn’t mean to. Whatever Ronan and Gansey had, Kavinsky had gotten a dose of the opposite.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Kavinsky peeled his eyes open. He leaned forward and stretched, back flexing. The long scars across the small of his back made his muscles look strange and slightly distorted as pulled at the skin awkwardly. He let out a soft noise as he relaxed.

With one long, grasshopper-ish step, Kavinsky left the chair and stood behind him. It was a small kitchen. Adam laid two strips of bacon, side by side, in the hot pan.

“Toast,” Adam said, and Kavinsky nodded, leaning over him to pull out the last end of the store-bought loaf from the cupboard above Adam’s head. Kavinsky dropped the bread into the toaster. After a couple tries, he even got the handle to go down and the filaments began to redden.

“You’re thinking loudly,” Kavinsky said.

“Am I?” Adam frowned, gently.

Kavinsky moved soundlessly into Adam’s personal space, bumping his hips with his own. Kavinsky put his hands on Adam’s thin hips, drawing him closer until their bodies aligned. He rested his head on Adam’s shoulder.

“You always are, Parrish,” Kavinsky murmured into his ear.

Adam looked away.

The bacon began to sizzle gently. He distracted himself by pushing it around the frying pan, watching as the flesh began to whiten at the edges. Adam never knew what triggered episodes like this, the opening of the empty maw inside him. He felt a little lost, like he had been detached from the earth and was floating by a single balloon-string thread.

“Could you bring Robert Parrish back?” Adam asked, so quietly Kavinsky could only just hear him over the bubbling oil, “From your dreams, I mean.”

Kavinsky didn’t react. He picked the metal tongs from Adam’s loose hands and turned the bacon over, first one and then the other. He turned them over facing away from them, as Adam had taught him, so that the oil wouldn’t spit at his hands.

“No,” Kavinsky said, “I might be able bring back someone who looked like him. But I never met him, so it wouldn’t act like him.”

Adam let out a breath.

The bacon began to pop insistently. Adam let it sizzle longer. He knew Kavinsky liked it a little darker than him, crispy and just before it burned. The toast popped up and Kavinsky moved away to pick it up. Adam felt him go in a rush of chill.

Adam turned off the stove. He picked the bacon up and dropped it onto a large plate before he put the pan in the sink. For a long time now, the two of them had eaten off only Adam’s single plate. It was chipped from overuse.

Kavinsky set the toast, buttered, onto the corner of the plate. There was no table in the kitchen, so they took their meal into the bedroom, where they sat at the foot of the bed.

“Do you miss him?” Kavinsky asked, around a mouthful of toast.

“No,” Adam said, sadly, “I don’t think so.”

Kavinsky nodded back at him. Adam knew, that for him, that was enough. Kavinsky wouldn’t ask anything else, wouldn’t even want to ask anything more.

Adam cut up the bacon. It steamed gently on their plate.

“I don’t… miss him,” Adam said, finally, “But I miss… It’s better now. I’m better now. But I miss when it was simpler.”

“Is it complicated, now?” Kavinsky asked. His voice was low and husky with sleep.

Adam picked up a strip of bacon and ate it, “I don’t know what I am, now. I don’t know who I am without my parents. So much of leaving Henrietta was escaping them.”

Kavinsky stretched, catlike, and relaxed boneless onto the floor. The food didn’t interest him anymore and he rested his head on the end of the bed. He watched Adam with one eye.

“And, with my dad…” Adam frowned, “I used to be good, and moral. I used to be in the right, at least, at least no matter what happened, I was always—I was always… always the victim, I guess, and never the perpetrator. I knew I hadn’t really done anything wrong. I don’t know that anymore.”

“Both the knife and the wound,” Kavinsky rumbled.

“Yeah,” Adam ran a hand through his hair, “Yeah, exactly.”

Kavinsky closed his eyes. One arm was propped up on the end of the bed and he rested his head in the crook of his arm. Now he really did look like he was falling asleep, his body relaxing gently, like sugar dissolving.

Adam ate in silence. He wasn’t hungry, but he hated to waste food. Kavinsky ate like a bird, picking only two or three things at random to eat and leaving the rest. His concave chest and dented ribs were no mystery. Adam finished the bacon and the toast and set the plate aside.

“Do you…” Adam swallowed, “Do you ever think about when you shot your father?”

“Every night,” Kavinsky didn’t open his eyes, “Every night.”

Adam stared at him, “But that was years ago now. If you were ten, then that was nearly eight years ago—almost half your life!”

Kavinsky sighed.

Slowly, Kavinsky pulled himself into siting position. He looked very old, his joints uncooperative, his spine stiff and cumbersome. There were nails in his right knee, Adam knew, his lower vertebrae were fused together and there was a metal plate in the back of his head.

Kavinsky put his hands on Adam’s knees. His eyes looked inhumanely dark in the half-light.

“I’m sorry, Parrish,” Kavinsky said, and sounded it. His voice was soft, “But you carry it with you. You always will.”

Adam searched his face for a grin, or a wink, some sign that Kavinsky was joking. He didn’t find it. Kavinsky looked grim and tired, his body wrung out and old.

“For—” Adam’s voice stopped working and it took a moment to come back, “For how long?”

Kavinsky shook his head.

Adam couldn’t breathe. His heart seized. He grabbed at Kavinsky’s hands and gripped them, hard, until he could feel the fine bones move in his calloused hands, “You can’t be—how long? How long? _Please,_ Kavinsky.”

Moving slowly, Kavinsky pulled him up and onto the bed, wrapping around him. He pulled the covers over both of them without letting him go. Kavinsky’s legs tangled with Adam’s and he pulled the other boy close, close, until Adam’s face was pressed against his neck.

“Kavinsky—” Adam choked. He grasped at Kavinsky’s skin, so hard he left pink fingernail marks, “You can’t be serious, Kavinsky. This isn’t fucking—it’s not fucking _funny.”_

Kavinsky held him closer, closer, until Adam felt his chest restricted by Kavinsky’s tough, wiry arms. Adam pressed his face into Kavinsky’s shoulder as he began to cry, big, fat tears. His breath rattled, “How _long_ , Kavinsky? Please… Please, it can’t be forever, I can’t…”

“I don’t know,” Kavinsky murmured, finally, “I’ve not found the end.”

Adam’s shoulders heaved. He gripped Kavinsky’s skin so hard he could feel his nails leaving raised welts. There was something animal and desperate in his chest, like a mouse caught in a trap—not yet dead but struggling, struggling. His nails broke Kavinsky’s skin.

Kavinsky pressed his lips to Adam’s forehead, temple and ears. Any part of Adam he could reach. Adam sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Kavinsky relaxed his grip a little to stroke Adam’s hair. Adam pushed closer. His heart hurt, deep and heavy. Adam’s eyes screwed shut.

*

At some point, Adam must have fallen asleep, because he woke when the first church bells of the day rang. The ringing was low and hollow, lilting and overlapping as someone, somewhere, pulled hard on the bell cords. Adam lay in bed, head heavy and painful, listening to the music. It had sounded like that for years and years, since the church had first been built.

Adam was alone in bed, but he could hear feet shuffling in the kitchen, the bubbling of a pot on the stove. That was a good thing about the small apartment—even when Kavinsky wasn’t in sight, Adam could still hear him, creaking over the old floorboards. Adam rubbed his eyes.

Reluctantly, Adam kicked the covers off and padded to the kitchen. His chest was heavy. It felt like his insides had been scooped out.

Kavinsky wandered around the kitchen and smiled when Adam arrived, “We should get a radio. It’s fucking gloomy in here with no music.”

“A microwave first,” Adam rubbed his face and dropped onto the single chair, “Are you making coffee? Can I have some?”

Kavinsky gestured to the two mugs already sitting next to the stove.

“Thank you,” Adam said, his head in his hands.

The water began to boil and Kavinsky poured it into the two mugs before dumping the excess in the sink. Steam curled over the sink, a rising ghost in the morning. Kavinsky pulled the sugar out of the bottom cupboard and began to bang around for a clean spoon. He found one and dumped a healthy amount of white sugar into Adam’s drink.

“Thank you,” Adam said, again, when Kavinsky pressed the drink into his hands. Steam curled around his chin.

Kavinsky sat on the countertop and sipped his coffee, leaning against the fridge. He watched Adam through hooded eyes.

Adam stared down into his coffee for a long time. Condensation made his face very slightly damp. It felt like there was a cold had sunk into his bones, right at his core, and his extremities were numb and painful. He took a small sip.

“You still with us, Parrish?” Kavinsky asked around his coffee cup.

Adam drank deeply. It was too hot and scorched his tongue. He felt a wave of heat rise behind his eyes and he closed them, tightly, until it passed. He wasn’t going to cry again today. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and drank again.

“I’ve got to ask, beautiful,” Kavinsky leaned forward, “Are you going to have an existential crisis every time I suck you off?”

That startled a laugh out of Adam. He smiled tiredly, “Is it a turn off?”

“Less than it should be,” Kavinsky said, finishing his coffee, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” Adam waved a hand.

Kavinsky reached a spindly arm up and snagged one of the neat packets of cigarettes kept on top of the fridge. He broke the seal with his nail, opened it, and tapped, rhythmically, on the countertop until one of the cigarettes rose from the rest. He pulled it out with his teeth.

Adam watched him light up. The easing of Kavinsky’s tight muscles was visible from the first pull. Logically, he knew it was bad for Kavinsky, and that he should quit. But it felt intensely cruel to deny him that, when Kavinsky already had so little peace.

“You know,” Adam said, “for all that’s happened to you, it’s impressive you’re not _more_ fucked up, honestly.”

Kavinsky lifted his eyebrows and smiled around his cigarette, “Not sure if that’s a compliment. But I think I would be more fucked up without _you,_ sweetheart.”

Sugar left a slight stickiness on Adam’s lips. He licked his lips and smiled back.

*

A bang startled Blue so badly she dropped the book she had been reading.

Heart thumping, Blue looked around her room trying to locate the source of the noise. Nothing looked like it had fallen over. The posters were all still put up properly, displaying the anatomy of wolves or the relative height of redwood tree.

Aubrey III undulated gently in the corner, snapping happily at the dangling ribbons that hung from the half-finished collage on the desk. Books piled in precarious piles around her desk chair, but nothing looked like it had just fallen over.

It was only because she happened to be looking at the right place that she saw the next rock hit her window with a bang.

Blue tossed the book down and stalked across the room. She threw the window open and leaned out.

Joseph Kavinsky lowered the rock he’d been getting ready to toss up to her, “Hey Sarge!”

“You could have broken the glass!” Blue yelled down at him.

“Your fault for forgetting your lesson!” Kavinsky called back, “How am I supposed to teach you to drive in these conditions?!”

 _“You_ forgot!” Blue pointed a finger at him, “It was supposed to be an hour ago!”

“No shit?” Kavinsky muttered to himself and leaned into his car to check the digital clock. He scratched his head and pulled himself back out, “That one’s on me, Sarge! You still got time?”

“One moment!” Blue huffed and closed her window. She snagged her keys from the desk and threw her jacket around her shoulders as she bounded down the stairs to the front door.

*

Monmouth Manufacturing smelled thickly of cooking chocolate. Noah stirred a large pan of bubbling chocolate sauce. He breathed it in deeply, savouring the sweet, indulgent smell. He grated in more nutmeg.

“If you’re a ghost,” Kavinsky asked, “Why are you wearing an apron?”

“Don’t be mean, Kavinsky,” Gansey called from the other side of the room.

“It’s an honest fucking question,” Kavinsky growled back, “Can’t you just get dirty and then disappear? It will be gone when he comes back.”

“Why do you wear an apron, Kav?” Blue asked, “You’re going to shower in the evening, aren’t you?”

“That’s a good point,” Ronan said.

Noah poured 300ml of thick white cream into his measuring jug and lifted to the light to make sure it reached the mark. He squinted at it before pouring a little into the sauce, stirring as it went in. It cut through the dark chocolate and swirled beautifully.

“The fuck it is,” Kavinsky said, darkly, “An apron stops your clothing from staining. Your clothes can’t stain if you’re dead—they’re stuck that way. That’s why he’s in that damn ugly uniform all the time.”

“That’s our damn ugly uniform, actually,” Adam reminded him.

“Don’t I know it,” Kavinsky rubbed his brow.

Adam passed him the book he’d been writing in, “Can you check my spelling?”

Kavinsky filled it around, squinting at the lines of Spanish. He corrected some of the lines with a red pen in his cramped, tight handwriting.

“Can you speak Spanish?” Blue asked, perking up.

“No,” Kavinsky said, “But I can read and write Italian. It’s similar.”

“Are you fluent?” Blue asked.

“My accent is shit,” Kavinsky shrugged.

Blue edged closer, pushing books out of the way, “How many languages can you speak?”

“Just Italian, French and some Russian,” Kavinsky said.

Blue sat down next to him, “And English, and Bulgarian.”

“Well, yeah,” Kavinsky raised an eyebrow.

“That’s so cool!” Blue beamed at him, “Maybe you could teach me one of those!”

“Pass your driving test, padawan,” Kavinsky said, “then we can talk.”

There was the open and shut of the oven and Noah set the cake onto the cooling rack. Steam filled the kitchenette and he switched the oven off.

“I only failed by like, two points,” Blue said, unhappily.

Kavinsky passed the marked work back to Adam, who smiled at him. Kavinsky picked up his annotated copy of _Grapes of Wrath_ and flipped through it. His expression was grim.

“Can you at least help me with these maths questions?” Blue asked, pushing her textbook towards him.

“Sargent,” Kavinsky said, exasperated, “Do you know how many head injuries I’ve had? I can’t do fucking mental maths. It’s a miracle I can still walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Can you actually do that?” Ronan wondered aloud. Kavinsky shot him a nasty look.

“Have you really been hit that many times?” Blue asked.

Kavinsky grinned at her, “Give me your hand.”

Blue let him take her hand and put her fingers to the crown of Kavinsky’s head, under his dark hair. For a moment, all she felt was hair. Then she found something rising out of the Kavinsky’s scalp, just under the skin, far too knobbly and sharp. She prodded it with the ends of her fingers.

“What’s that?” Blue asked.

“It’s a metal plate,” Kavinsky said, “It’s something they put in to fuse my skull together again and stop my brains leaking out.”

“It didn’t work,” Adam said. Kavinsky smacked his leg and he laughed.

“How did you get it?” Gansey asked, cautiously.

“I uh,” Kavinsky actually looked a bit embarrassed, “Well, when I was fifteen, I tried to jump from one car to another on the freeway, while we were speeding. I didn’t manage it. But they managed to scrape me off the pavement and patch me up anyway.”

“Holy shit,” Ronan laughed, “How did you not die? You’re like a roach.”

“Yeah, you’re like Frankenstein’s monster,” Blue felt the small, evenly spaced scars left by the removed stitches.

“And _I’m_ the mean one,” Kavinsky grumbled. He pulled Blue’s hand out of his hair.

Noah poured the sauce over the cake. It swirled with steam, the sauce a glossy, beautiful brown, like polished mahogany. He smiled at his opaque reflection in the heated chocolate.

“They’re kind of right though,” Adam looked at him, eyes soft, “It’s kind of a miracle that you’re still alive.”

“Yeah,” Kavinsky said, “I guess God wants me for greater things.”

“I’m sure one of those greater things,” Noah said, tilting the gorgeous chocolate cake for them to admire, “is eating this cake I just finished.”

*

The Camaro would have usually been too small for all six of them, but Noah elected to stay home in Henrietta. It hadn’t been long since his body had been discovered, and there were still newspapers hanging around with his school photos printed on the front page. So, Kavinsky was squished between Gansey and Adam in the backseat like a sardine, because Ronan refused to give up shotgun.

Blue drove. She had passed only a few days before and drove with her shoulders almost up to her ears and the grip tight on the steering wheel. Given that he first experience driving had been steering while Kavinsky shot a rocket launcher out of the passenger-side window, it was easy to understand.

They were late.

As the Camaro curved into the long gravel drive of the Gansey Mansion. A man approached the car from one side and Blue swerved widely to avoid him until Ronan reminded her that he was actually the chauffeur and she should stop driving. She flushed and hit the brakes so hard the whole car lurched. Gansey patted the side of the car sympathetically.

They all tumbled out onto the gravel.

“You’ve taken your tie off,” Adam grumbled. He walked stiffly, like he didn’t want his suit to crease.

“It’s annoying,” Kavinsky rubbed his long throat.

“You need to wear one,” Gansey said, “I thought you were going to behave?”

Blue touched Gansey’s elbow, her purse swinging from her arm, “Kav is behaving. He just likes it when Adam fusses over him.”

Kavinsky flipped her off.

Blue laughed. She was wearing a knee-length dress which looked like a fresh wisteria flower, intricate folds of pale purple and blue which shifted in the slightest of breezes. Across her wrists, she wore periwinkle ribbons. She looked beautiful and sly, like a fae from an old English picture book. Gansey could almost imagine iridescent dragon-fly wings stretching from her shoulder blades.

Adam finished the tie and pulled the knot up to the hollow of Kavinsky’s throat. He kissed Kavinsky’s jaw. Ronan made a gagging noise and Gansey shot him a look.

“Ronan, Kavinsky,” Gansey said, “I know you don’t like these kinds of events, but this is my parents. I need them to like you.”

“I’m very likeable,” Kavinsky purred.

“I’m being serious,” Gansey said, desperately.

Kavinsky pulled Adam with him as he began to move away. Adam glanced back at him, “Don’t worry, Gans. I’ll keep him in line.”

Gansey didn’t seem comforted by that. He watched them walk away, arm in arm and he wanted to run a hand through his hair, but he’d just spent half an hour combing mousse into it, so he just put his hands in his pockets. He glanced around at Ronan, “Are you going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Ronan said, “Unlike Kavinsky, I’m house trained.”

“Isn’t Kavinsky like you guys?” Blue asked, following them as they started to walk up the gravel path, “I thought he’d been to lots of these events.”

Gansey grimaced, “Kavinsky’s… well, he’s not upper class. He doesn’t have a very good, um… pedigree.”

“Ah,” Blue said, “So he’s like… _rich_ white trash?”

“Basically,” Ronan said.

“That’s not what I said!” Gansey protested weakly, “I just meant he’s not—well… He’s not a good fit. I have no idea what he’ll do.”

“You’re too wound up,” Blue shifted her purse higher on her shoulder, “Kavinsky’s a great guy.”

“Is he, now?” Ronan asked.

“Sure. See this dress?” Blue jumped in front of the two boys and spun around. The corollas of her dress lifted as she span, a soft blur of beautiful purples and blues, “Kavinsky made it for me! He dreamed it up when I said I couldn’t find anything to wear.”

Gansey looked green, “I don’t know if you should be wearing something Kavinsky pulled out of his mind. Is it safe?”

Blue rolled her eyes, “You’re driving around in something _Ronan_ came up with, and he’s failed introduction to engineering class three times.”

“I got an A the fourth time,” Ronan grumbled.

“All I’m saying is, you should give him a chance! It _is_ his birthday after all,” Blue said, “What’s the worst that could happen?” When she saw Gansey open his mouth, she raised a hand to stop him: “I wasn’t actually asking.”

*

Gansey entered the party with his nerves already wound up into knots. He greeted guests absently, and only sometimes remembered to smile and return questions. He accidentally interrupted half the time and forgot to respond the other half. People were slightly put off by him.

All the time he was talking, a large portion of his brain was taken up keeping a mental log of where Kavinsky and Ronan were at all times. When he talked to a foreign businessman he glanced over and over at Kavinsky who was making small talk with an oil dignitary and Gansey felt his heart rate pick up. While Gansey talked to the mayor’s cousin he relaxed a little—Kavinsky was talking to Adam over the drinks table and laughing, he would probably be occupied for at least a little while.

It was when he glanced over at Kavinsky— _WHO WAS NOW TALKING TO GANSEY’S PARENTS!!_ —that his heart really started to hammer. He excused himself very quickly, dropped his half-finished champagne flute onto one of the side tables and ran as fast as he dared to.

Richard Gansey II laughed as Gansey approached, and Gansey’s skin started to crawl. The laugh sounded genuine. What the hell had Kavinsky said that his father would laugh at? What sort of hell world had he dropped into?

“Richard?” Mrs. Gansey smiled as her son approached, “Is something wrong? You look pale.”

Kavinsky smiled at him. It was a disconcerting smile, and Gansey searched his features. This was not Joseph Kavinsky. This interloper was relaxed but poised, his chest open and his shoulders straight, his suit impeccable and his stubborn hair tamed into a handsome back sweep. Everything about him was handsome apart from his eyes. Those black eyes watched him, light with humour.

“Kavinsky,” Gansey said, and stopped.

“Yosif is your friend, isn’t he?” Richard II asked, smiling, “He was just telling us about the time you helped fix his car. I had no idea you were such a good mechanic.”

There had never been a time when Gansey had fixed Kavinsky’s car. It was actually fairly impossible for Kavinsky’s car to ever stop working—the engine cavity was empty and there was nothing driving it but magic. Gansey’s mouth was dry.

“It was very impressive,” Kavinsky said, and his voice was noticeably empty of the usual mocking drawl. Instead it sounded dry and warm, a normal schoolboy’s timbre, “I understand he learned how to fix cars from Adam Parrish, but he spoke like an expert. Although, I hardly know more about cars than which pedal makes it go forward.”

Mrs. Gansey laughed good naturedly, “Maybe we should get you to work on the Cadillac’s engine, Richard. It’s been making a strange noise as of late.”

Gansey fixed Kavinsky with as sharp a look as he dared and tried to silently project his thoughts into Kavinsky’s head: _Leave. Leave. Leave._

Kavinsky smiled at him and dipped his head to the rest of the Gansey family, “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Gansey smiled, “Enjoy the party.”

Kavinsky walked away, across the dark grass. His walk, at least, had its usual loping grace, like a wolf prowling.

“What interesting friends you have, son,” Richard II beamed at him, “You know, his mother was Celestria Cordonnier? Well, she changed her name after she got married, of course.”

“No, I didn’t,” Gansey frowned, “Who is that?”

“She was the youngest mezzo-soprano in the Opéra national de Paris at the time,” Richard II said, “Voice like an angel. And so strong, too, like the chord of a violin.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Gansey looked misty eyed, “On our honeymoon your father and I heard her perform _Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix_ in Italy. It was truly astounding. There was something almost haunting about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“It brought your mother to tears,” Richard II told Gansey, “We couldn’t leave the opera in the middle of the Aria, so she dried her eyes on my sleeves.”

“I got mascara all over you,” Mrs. Gansey smiled, “Ah, _Dalila! Dalila! Je t'aime!_ I still think about it, sometimes. I wanted to take you to see it when we renewed our vows, but she’d retired by then, to focus on her family life.”

“Right,” Gansey said, distantly. His parents continued to talk without him.

The live band continued to play. Beethoven’s _Appassionata_ sonata layered the smoky air, lilting and soft. Violins crooned, waxing and waning with the sonata. The conductor’s soft dress shoes were soundless as he directed enthusiastically.

Across the party, far away, Kavinsky draped himself over Adam’s shoulders. He pointed into the middle distance, “Adam.”

Adam followed his pointing.

Ronan Lynch was talking to a beefy young man with a head of crisp golden hair and freckles. Ronan looked uncharacteristically interested in the conversation, his teeth showing in his grin. The young man said something, and Ronan laughed, bellowing and loud.

“Lynch is cheating on us,” Kavinsky purred in mock-horror. Adam snorted.

*

The party wore on. Gansey managed to relax into conversations. Ronan and the blonde-haired young man became conspicuously absent. Adam made connections in high places.

“Kav- _in_ -sky,” Blue tugged at Kavinsky’s elbow, “Are you having a good time?”

“Now that you’re here, princess,” Kavinsky leaned back against the drinks table, “Did you know how many bottles of champagne are here? It’s a limitless supply, it sounds like.”

“I’m sure you’ll abuse that privilege,” Blue said, proudly.

Kavinsky drained his champagne flute, “What can I do for you, Sarge?”

“Well, it’s your birthday, right?” Blue shuffled around in her bag, “I got you something.”

Kavinsky blinked at her.

Blue pulled out a small potted plant. It wiggled gently in the cool night breeze.

“Aubrey?” Kavinsky took the plant from her.

“Yes, kind of,” Blue said, “I took a cutting from Aubrey III and re-potted it. It was really difficult. So it’s like Aubrey IV, really.”

Kavinsky tilted Aubrey IV around. The plant only had one grasping mouth, the size of his thumbnail, which snapped at him when he poked at it.

“Do you like it?” Blue asked, “Orla said it would be like re-gifting what you gave me—but it’s more like giving you a chick when you gave me a chicken, right?”

Kavinsky said, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever gotten.”

“Really?” Blue flushed.

“Well, I’ve never gotten a birthday gift before.” Kavinsky marvelled at it.

“Oh.”

Kavinsky put held the small plant towards Blue, “Keep it safe for me, will you? I don’t want to leave him somewhere and I ain’t got a bag.”

Blue beamed at him and set it back in her bag, “Of course.”

*

By the time it was approaching midnight, most of the party had ever left or migrated into the brightly-lit gazebos. The air was cool and slightly damp.

Adam found Kavinsky leaning against one of the gazebo railings, one long grey line of smoke circling from his lit cigarette. Kavinsky lifted his head, just slightly, when he saw Adam approach.

“Less stars,” Kavinsky glanced at the sky.

Adam followed his gaze. There was more black in the sky than there usually was in Henrietta, the few stars that studded the sky were dimmer, as if the light was shining from much further away. He drew his eyes away, “There’s more light pollution here.”

Music swelled and mellowed around them, the lilting flutes, the strong chords of the piano.

“Do you want to waltz?” Adam asked, gently.

Kavinsky stubbed out his cigarette on the railing and drifted towards him. Adam pulled his hands around him and paused, indecisive.

“Should I play the girl part?” Adam asked. His Henrietta drawl slipped out for the first time that evening, warm and syrupy.

“I’m your girlfriend, remember?” Kavinsky purred.

Adam put his arm around Kavinsky’s chest, and Kavinsky lay his arm on top of his. Kavinsky’s form was terrible, even worse than Adam’s, and they could only move slow and offbeat. Adam had to dodge Kavinsky’s sharp dress shoes.

“Did Gansey end up relaxing?” Kavinsky asked.

“A little,” Adam said. He spoke quietly, “Did you see him later in the evening?”

“I think my presence was making it worse.”

Their footfalls were utterly soundless. The wet grass cushioned every noise they made, and the earth was wet and squishy. Pale mud flecked the bottom of Kavinsky’s expensive trousers in random arcs.

“I…” Kavinsky started, but his voice died.

They moved away from the gazebo. The music struggled to reach them, only the loudest peels of the violin made an impression. Wavering piano fought against the general murmur of polite talk. Adam waited, patiently, his gaze impassive.

“I’m repeating the year,” Kavinsky said, voice very slightly strained.

Adam watched him. It seemed like a very delicate moment was unfurling in his hands. It felt like even a light breeze might break it.

“I missed so many classes already, so I have to repeat,” Kavinsky said, and swallowed, “Will you wait for me?”

“You’re asking me to delay Harvard applications?” Adam frowned.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Kavinsky grinned, catlike, “I’m saying don’t start fucking Harvard dudes until your dunce boyfriend finishes high school.”

Adam smiled, “And is my dunce boyfriend going to wait for me, too?”

Kavinsky sucked in air through his teeth, “Is Lynch staying in Henrietta, or nah?”

Adam swatted him lightly.

The pair of them turned around and around as they made their way across the dark grass. The tracks they left were winding and wandering, like the flightpath of a bee on a hot day. The bottom of Adam’s cuffs were soaked with dew, dripping silently every once in a while. Kavinsky’s shoes were so wet they shone like glossed beetles.

Adam rested his head on Kavinsky’s shoulder, “I think I love you.”

Kavinsky said nothing for a long time. Adam hadn’t expected him to. Slowly, Adam closed his eyes and let Kavinsky lead them meandering around the dark field.

“Are you sure you want to?” Kavinsky asked, “There’s not much of me left, Parrish.”

Adam was so close he could feel Kavinsky’s voice rumble through his chest. He didn’t open his eyes.

“I’ll take what you have,” Adam said, “Whatever’s left over, I’ll love all that’s there.”

Kavinsky pulled him closer.

It was a cold night. Adam’s socks were wet and his fingers were numb. But Kavinsky was warm, warm and ferociously alive. Adam could hear his heart beating, strong as a horse.

Kavinsky rested his chin on Adam’s head, peering down at him, “You know, Adam, I’m kind of fond of you, too.”

“You are, are you?” Adam asked, laughter warm in his voice. His eyes flickered open.

“Yeah,” Kavinsky said, “Well, kind of.”

Adam kissed his chin, his cheek, “You’re an asshole.”

Kavinsky kissed him on the mouth, hard. He cradled the back of Adam’s head. He kissed like he was laughing, a warmth Adam felt in his chest.

“ _Very_ fond indeed, actually,” Kavinsky purred in his ear. Adam wrapped his arms around his neck. They weren’t quite waltzing anymore; they were far too clumsy for that. Instead, they wrapped around each other and swayed, feet bumping into each other as they retraced their steps over the dark, wet grass.

It didn’t matter. There was no one there to see them. The band played on and on and on, and the stars twinkled, buried in the dark sky. They would never know it, but when Adam kissed him next, it was the exact moment Kavinsky turned eighteen.

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END


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